


heaven/hell/humanity

by Karentt1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Musing on Life, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, well this fic is for you, you wanna hear my shitty thoughts on heaven and hell, you wanna see crowley get drunk and cry?, you wanna see him be a self deprecating bitch?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24365914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karentt1/pseuds/Karentt1
Summary: It was during these times, when he felt powerless and vulnerable and split open like a walnut on Christmas Eve, he felt his hands reaching for a bottle, and his thoughts turning to Heaven and their infernal arrogance.(or, crowley muses on his fall, heaven and hell, then gets invited to dinner by azi, and he gets better,)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	heaven/hell/humanity

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't been in the GO fandom in 6 months, ive been hyperfixating on the witcher. but i was going through my drafts and this came up, and i want it gone, but i didn't want to delete it because younger me was proud of it. I wasn't confident enough to post it tho, but quarantine has given me confidence. 
> 
> so here you go, this horrible bullshit. the paragraphs are huge, just warning you now.

The day had been long, and Crowley was tired and drunk, already surrounded by multiple bottles. He had overexerted himself throughout the week, and was left with a splitting headache that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how many times he snapped his fingers. It certainly wasn’t a good idea to begin drinking at this time, even he knew that, but then he couldn't stop thinking of when Aziraphale had  _ smiled  _ at him and called him  _ my dearest _ and  _ my darling boy  _ the other day, and Crowley was getting all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it. How disgusting. Affection. 

It was certainly worth mentioning that love and affection was all Crowley had really craved throughout his immortal life, but that wasn’t something that he could be given. So, drinking at three pm on a Saturday certainly sounded like the best idea he had. It was during these times, when he felt powerless and vulnerable and split open like a walnut on Christmas Eve, he felt his hands reaching for a bottle, and his thoughts turning to Heaven and their infernal arrogance. 

Crowley didn’t miss Heaven, this he was certain. It didn’t matter what Aziraphale thought. Aziraphale thought that Crowley longed to be an angel once more, back in Her light and love, which wasn’t true. 

“I wish you would see the light, Crowley,” Aziraphale said when he was particularly pissed off at the demon, and it was after Aziraphale said this Crowley knew it was okay to let loose without thought for the angels feelings, because if Aziraphale wanted to bring up that bullshit, Crowley wouldn’t hesitate to bring up his. 

(This usually resulted in their worst fights.) 

Aziraphale was an unfortunate victim of Heavens endless propaganda, which Crowley has tried to explain to him multiple times, but he always refused to listen. Aziraphale still believed in the righteousness of Heaven, the beauty in the pain. Crowley had known better ever since God abandoned them during the war. 

In the end, it was pure and simple fact, nothing more, nothing less. Heaven had been too constricting, too consuming, too stifling, and Crowley had given on up on believing it was anything else. Heaven had been a prison, despite not having walls, or a lock and key. There are other ways to keep someone prisoner, without chains. Keep your prisoners locked in their own beliefs, convinced of their low self worth and your own godliness, and you have the perfect prisoner to manipulate to your whims. It was how abusers thought, and Crowley longed to murder them all. 

Crowley understood this, and so he left. He had always been like his creation, wild, angry and free. The universe was capable of change with a single thought and Crowley reflected this. Give him borders and he’d sure as hell cross them. Chain him up and he’d chew off his own arm to get free, before tearing the person who had the audacity to try and cage him apart with his bare hands. Ask Gabriel himself what happened the last time he had tried it. 

(Gabriel still held a healthy amount of fear of Crowley, though it wasn’t enough to get him to stop acting like a self-righteous prick everytime he and Crowley crossed paths. He still hadn’t told Aziraphale what had happened between them.) 

In the end, it was Crowley’s overwhelming curiosity and disregard for authority that had damned him. The fall certainly hadn’t been fun, but he would do it all again just to get away from Heaven. 

The worst part was the few minute free fall where your holiness, light and love was ripped from you, leaving a gaping hole in its wake, and you’re left wondering  _ what did I do to deserve this, _ and then it's over within the second. After that you’re free to recover, if you can even manage. Crowley had, though he couldn’t say the same for some of his fellow demons. Most demons sanity had been ripped from their minds completely, and they were left a hollow shell of their former selves, with the sadistic desire to kill and maim and torture under the guise of revenge. Crowley tried to stay away from them when he visited Hell. 

Some had managed to avoid that fate, though they were left with a startling amount of hatred for anything even remotely holy. Again, Crowley managed to avoid that fate to a certain degree, though he had already felt contempt towards his fellow angels even before his fall, so becoming a demon hadn’t changed that about him. 

Ultimately, the problem arose up when he was faced with the alternative. Hell was dark and gritty, and it certainly wasn’t much better for keeping someone caged. The only difference was that it was more often a physical cage rather than a mental one. It may have been easier to escape from a cage made of metal and locks, then one you created in your own mind, but it certainly isn’t an improvement. They would find you eventually and drag you back down to Hell, where you were faced with the worst they could offer. Whips, chains, knives, some weird forms of torture Hell had adopted from the humans, because they were the true monsters here. Crowley had always said Hell owed most of everything to them. 

Crowley had gotten used to the sensation of flesh being torn from his bones, so much that he barely even screamed whenever Beelzebub or Hastur got lucky and managed to tie him down for long enough to actually slip in a brief amount of torture. It wasn’t really something you should be used to, but here he was. Aziraphale would be pissed if he ever knew, full of holy wrath, and Crowley didn’t think he could handle seeing Aziraphale like that for him, so he didn’t say a word. 

Crowley didn’t talk about his time as an angel. It was one of the few rules he had, and Aziraphale had been pretty good at following it so far. As much as it hurt, knowing that Aziraphale would never love him because he was demonised and angels couldn’t love demons, it hurt even more knowing Aziraphale didn’t love him, even knowing him once as an equal. So Crowley never brought anything up about Heaven in front of Aziraphale and what he remembers of his time up in the silver city, because then it would remind Aziraphale that he used to be just like him, holy and pure, and that he truly had no excuse to not love Crowley. He was just as much his equal as those of the likes of Gabriel, though that was only in the endless debate of whether or not any being had worth over another. If you asked Crowley about the kindness and purity of ethereal beings, there was no way Gabriel could even compare to Aziraphale, the prick. 

There was of course the eternal debate being fought in Heaven over the worth of demons inside the angels minds. 

Some, although very few, believed that demons should be considered equals to their angelic counterparts because they were from the same stock, but most angels believed that demons were less than before and shouldn’t even be allowed to look angels in the eye, lest they become tainted by sin. Many angels held onto the belief that they deserve to be crushed under heel like the trash they are and when you’re being told this multiple times over the course of six thousand years, even by your best friend who you’ve been in love with since Eden, then it’s quite easy to fall into the mindset of less than. Crowley, for as much as he rejected propaganda and heavenly/hellish messages, found it quite easy to slip up when it came to matters regarding his own self-worth. He had already held an unhealthy amount of self-hatred for himself and becoming a demon had done nothing to quell that. 

He hated Heaven. He hated Hell. But, if you got lucky and managed to catch him alone and drunk as all hell, and asked if he missed anything about Heaven, he would talk about the stars. 

Tonight was shaping up to be one such night. Crowley had already gone through what was left of his liquor cabinet, and was slowly going through whatever bullshit he could miracle up. In the darkness and silence of his flat and drunken haze, he found his thoughts moving to his creation. If there was one thing he missed, although there wasn’t much, it was the stars. He had shaped them out of his own essence, back when he was one of eight, swirling his fingers in colour painting the sky and galaxies. What would Aziraphale say if he knew the aurora borealis he loved so much was created by Crowley himself? Would it disgust him? Would it ruin the phenomenon for him forever knowing that a demon had created it? Crowley was so sure of that, so deep in his own self hatred. 

Sometimes Crowley would look into the mirror and see brown spots dotting his skin, so light you could barely see them. He remembered what it was like, holding the stars in his skin and eyes. He remembered the gold that used to shine in his hair that had run with fire.

(“Firebrand,” they used to whisper through the walls of Heaven, and by hell, he was.) 

He missed creation, the feeling of building something out of nothing. He remembered designing the constellation, he remembers being stellatus, and being filled with astrologia. He remembered the worship of stars. That was what he did. And he found that he loved his creation more than Her. He dedicated the universe towards Her and in the end, chose his desperate curiosity over Heaven. So She had kicked him out and tore the stars cruelly from his skin, leaving scars in the shape of freckles, reminders of constellations and star patterns in his skin. He would trace them in the night, and compare them to star charts. 

So no. He didn’t miss Heaven. He missed his creation. He looked up into the sky and saw his work, and felt sombre and solemn. Aziraphale would gush over how beautiful it was, and Crowley remembered how it felt to be beautiful himself. He missed creation sometimes so much it hurt. He couldn’t do much now, only tempt and destroy. Everything he made now fell apart in his hands. Food, knitting, painting and writing all failed, a desperate attempt to bring back that feeling of pride, though he would be damned again if anyone found out about his creative streak. He was already being slandered with words like  _ nice  _ and  _ sweet  _ and worst of all,  _ cute.  _ He didn’t need another untruth, to be said by Aziraphale in such an adoring tone, with a smile as bright as how the heavens used to be. 

“How cruel is a mother scorned,” he said bitterly, sipping at his wine. The flat was empty and he was alone, the silence making his lungs clench. He was sitting on his throne, his long, slender legs draped over one armrest, kicking them idly back and forth. “Damn you.”

He reached over to grab another bottle and refill his glass, but found that he couldn’t. The bottle slipped out of grasp as soon as his fingers brushed it, as if it was trying to tell him to stop. Crowley sighed and tried to sober up, getting the hint. His mind was too foggy for this. He always hated sobering up, when the alcohol evaporated from his body and he was left with the emptiness he had tried to fill in the first place, but now with a disgusting taste left in his dry mouth. He licked his lips, trying to wet them, feeling the alcohol leave his bloodstream until he could think again. The world was quiet and he put down the glass carefully and turned his head towards the sky, tears slipping down his cheeks into his fiery hair. 

“How could you?” 

Silence. 

“Answer me coward.” 

Of course She didn’t respond. Of fucking course. 

Crowley didn’t mean to fall. That means he didn’t regret it, just meant that it wasn’t his end goal with the rebellion. Maybe to get some answers and some freedom, not to be stripped of Her love, something he tried to fill with alcohol and material things. Something that he believed that Aziraphale could fill, but that would've been selfish of him, to use someone unwilling to heal his own heart.

“What a failure of a Mother you are,” Crowley muttered, getting up gracefully and wiping the tears away. “I build something in your name and you disown me. Fuck me.” 

Crowley didn’t love Hell. He hated it, almost as much as Heaven. But at least Heaven had better morals when it came to the humans. Crowley would prefer to save them rather than damn them. The propaganda Heaven spread was annoying, but Crowley was always rather prescriptive. He could see right through it. He could deal with it.

With Hell though, it was easier to get away with stuff. Crowley was a legend down in Hell, a tale whispered silent through the halls, lest the Duke or Prince catch wind of their gossip. Everyone was aware of the hatred harboured for a certain firebrand held by Beelzebub and Hastur and nobody else wanted that rage turned on them.

Crowley was a contradiction to the Council. He only did the bare minimum of what was required, but when the hounds of Hell were finally about to descend on him, he came up with brilliant, long lasting ideas Lords, Dukes and Barons of Hell could only dream of. Lucifer would praise him, and Crowley would leave Hell victorious. Behind him, Beelzebub and Hastur would clench their jaws so tight their teeth would be reduced to dust and they would vow to get him next time. But there never was a next time. In another hundred years, he would saunter back in, hips swinging like a pendulum, lips smirking, eyes covered, and he would bow, long and low, slender fingers curling and brushing the dirty floor, the perfect mixture of sincere and pure mocking. Then he would give his daily reports and turn his heel and saunter back out, untouched. The occasional time Beelzebub did manage to keep him long enough to even get an hour of torture in, Crowley would come back without an ounce of fear. 

So Crowley was safe, but not quite, from Hell. He knew how to work around the restrictions and spin his deeds of mischief into sins. So Hell was certainly easier to master, despite the pain that came with being a demon of Hell and certainly one as successful and disrespectful as him. There were certainly one or two demons that would love to put him in his place and Crowley wasn’t a fighter. He was a sweet-talker, a manipulator, nothing more. 

In the end, all Crowley wanted was humanity. Was that too much to ask?

“You fucking owe me Mother dearest,” Crowley cruelly spit out. He walked over to the pure white kitchen, subconsciously mimicking Heaven. Certainly not because he missed it, but because Hell was dirty and crowded and dark, and out of Heaven and Hell, Crowley could at least admit that Heaven certainly had the better aesthetics. He supposed he could have gone with some modern, human look, but he wasn’t human, wasn’t even pretending and their houses and styles were tailored for them and not an immortal, occult being. Human style in decor was  _ not  _ the best either. Despite wanting to be human, he could recognise that human style could use some work, especially modern works. 

Wasn’t that the most cruel of irony, he mused, as he sat crossed legged on the counter, leaning to the side to reach the fruit basket without looking. (He grabbed an apple. How ironic.) An occultist in love with ethereal, begging for humanity, for the one thing he was sworn to damn. He’s been in love with humanity since Eden. The most beautiful garden in the world, filled with sweet perfumes and fruits, and of course Crowley had to ruin it. And now he was recreating it in his living room because he remembered how lovely Aziraphale had looked on the wall and what better way to immortalise your love then the recreation of your first meeting spot? 

“Human couples do that,” muttered Crowley, then hated himself for it. 

That was just pathetic, because he wasn’t human, no matter how much he wanted it. Human couples did that, went to their place on anniversaries, recreated wedding meals and vows and went through photo albums. Aziraphale and him weren’t even dating and he selfishly wished they were. 

Sometimes, like today, Crowley’s thoughts would run wild. He would contemplate his fall, his choices, Heaven before Gabriel had taken over and turn it into a bureaucratic's wet dream. It was days like this that would result in his unholy desire for holy water, certainly not for insurance. He hadn’t lied to Aziraphale. It was always going to be used to protect himself from demons. It was just a question if he would protect himself by killing the demons or himself. He certainly wasn’t stupid enough to face down a prince of Hell by himself. Even though Crowley had a love of life and all things in it, especially Aziraphale, he could not deny the internal pleasure the idea of ending it gave him. 

He wasn’t suicidal, no matter what Aziraphale thought. He had gotten so used to the idea of not being able to die, it was a shock that he now had a method of it right in his living room. 

The phone rang for a few minutes from the other room and Crowley let it, finishing his apple, the juice making his lips and fingers slightly sticky. He didn’t get hungry, but found that eating was a good distraction when his thoughts took violent turns, when they threatened to overwhelm and overtake him. He wasn’t like Aziraphale, who was filled with a love of all sweet things. In fact, he hated anything even moderately sweet. The sugar hurt his teeth and coated the back of his throat uncomfortably. He preferred savoury and spicy foods found in places like Thailand or India. He couldn’t eat British food, it was too bland for him. What a shitty idea to move to England, but then again, Aziraphale was there. 

The ringing stopped and it went to voicemail. Aziraphales voice filled the room. “Ah hello my dear. I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you through these last few days, but I’ve been busy with a surprise!” Aziraphale sounded so happy, Crowley couldn’t help but smile briefly, the excitement contagious. He could already feel himself start to relax listening to Aziraphale’s voice. 

(“Getting fucking dependent on someone who merely tolerated your existence,” something in Crowley muttered, and Crowley wanted to kill it. Couldn’t he just have one thing for himself, just one fucking thing?) 

“Anyways, I was wondering if perhaps you would like to accompany me to this new restaurant tonight,” Aziraphales voice continued. “I hear it's been getting some good reviews and I wanted to check it out. I will be leaving at six, I hope to see you there.” The message ended and Crowley was left with silence once again. 

He wondered if he should call Aziraphale back, wondered if talking to him would make the insufferable voices in his head finally stop. He would be going to the restaurant; why wouldn’t he? Aziraphale had asked him to come, how could he ever deny him anything? 

(Whipped, people told him, and Crowley wanted to tear their throats out.) 

He tugged on a jacket, and put on a pair of sunglasses so Aziraphale didn’t have to look into his eyes, proof of his damnation. He decided that leaving at 4pm was acceptable, because then he would get to see Aziraphale sooner. It wasn’t pathetic, he tried to convince himself, to wish to see the love of your life. People did that, everyone coveted something they couldn’t have, Crowley wasn’t the exception, like he was in Heaven and Hell. 

The Bentley was waiting for him as he slipped into his seat, and turned on the engine. It ran beautifully, and Crowley could almost feel himself start to calm down, his fingers still shaking as he gripped the wheel. He pulled out of the road, and started driving, the world passing by like the years Crowley had been on the planet. 

He liked going fast; it gave him less time to breathe. 

He made it to the bookshop, and he was sure he hadn’t killed anyone on his way. Through the window he could see Aziraphale stacking books, his sleeves rolled up showing his bare skin, and Crowley’s skin burned like it had that day when he fell. It felt like fire under his cheeks. 

He wondered if he should enter, wondered if that would be impolite coming in so early, but in the end, Crowley had always been selfish. And today, his thoughts threatened to overrun his conscience, and even though he sometimes didn’t know if Aziraphale would care if he left, he knew that Aziraphale was the one being alive capable of making him feel better about himself. So, he shut off the engine, and sauntered in, hips moving wildly from side to side, like he was wearing heels. 

“Angel,” he cried, waving an arm, and Aziraphale turned to him excitedly, like he was fucking excited to see a demon. Crowley loved him. 

“My dear boy, I wasn’t expecting you until six,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley shrugged, like he hadn’t known that. “I sent you a voicemail about it, we were supposed to leave at six.” 

“Didn’t realise angel, sorry about that. Haven’t checked my voicemails yet,” Crowley lied, and it came to him so easily, he wondered if he really was a good person like Aziraphale seemed to think. “We could go now, if you’re not busy.” 

Aziraphale made a show of checking the clock, but Crowley knew he had him, knew what Aziraphale would say. Somehow, Aziraphale had never been able to deny him either. The holy water in his safe was proof of that. 

“Well, I suppose eating dinner at four o’clock isn’t a bad thing.” He smiled at Crowley, and Crowley wanted that smile directed at him forever. It filled his heart, got rid of the emptiness better than alcohol ever had. “We could go now, me and you.” 

Aziraphale rolled down his sleeves, and Crowley mourned their loss. Aziraphale went to grab his boots, and straightened up, fixing his bow tie. Crowley almost smiled softly, but then remembered he was a demon, and demons only smirked evilly, and he refused to be called anymore demeaning words by Aziraphale. 

“Well, my dear,” Aziraphale said, holding out his arm like a proper gentleman, “Shall we?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, though he knew Aziraphale couldn’t see it through the glasses, and slipped his hand into Aziraphale's elbow. “We shall,” he drawled, trying to sound mocking, but really meaning it. And wasn’t that just his entire fucking life, pretending to hate something he loved. 

Aziraphale led him out onto the street, passing the Bentley like he knew they would come back for it together, and started walking down the street, bubbling about a new pastry shop that he loved. Crowley loved him even more. Aziraphale’s hand grounded him where he was, and he no longer shook with the desire to leave. His heartbeat was steady, and his hands didn’t tremble. 

He hated Heaven. He hated Hell. He would pray for his humanity, but he refused to worship a god that scorned him for freedom, so he didn’t even have that. But being there with Aziraphale made him feel like he was a human, like he belonged on Earth. Being with Aziraphale made him feel like there was a chance they could be free, free from the propaganda and hatred both sides spit. And even though Aziraphale could never love a demon, he could befriend one, and that was good enough for Crowley. He burned for more, but he already burned once, and it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat. So he contented himself with just this, Aziraphale arm wrapped around his hand like a lifeline. 

And some may call him dense for missing the loving smile Aziraphale shot his way. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> if anything is wonky, out of character, or just plain bad, feel free to tell me so i can improve!


End file.
